Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  But he'd left Darin's house that night knowing Darin was coked up and seriously pissed off. Knowing Darin was impulsive and unpredictable.

  And now, Lord help him, the boy was dead.

  Kidnapping the woman and her kids was bad enough.

  Now he was an accessory to murder.

  CHAPTER 20

  7:25 AM

  Frank sped west on the I-10, Maynard Ferguson and his big band blasting from the speakers. Anything to distract him from the task ahead. He got off the I-10 and headed for Luling, oblivious to the weedy marshes and flame-colored leaves on the maple trees he passed. He was exhausted, running on adrenaline, driven by a fury that wouldn‘t stop until he caught the bastard who'd killed Robbie.

  His meeting with Vobitch hadn't taken long. Vobitch had left strict orders at the desk: No comments to the media until he gave the okay. Vobitch would call Walsh and have him notify Gates. Frank would deliver the news to Robbie's grandmother. Knowing how devastated she would be, Frank had said he didn't look forward to telling Blanche her grandson was dead.

  “I don't blame you,” Vobitch said, somber-eyed. “It never gets any easier. The motherfuckers did it to send us a message. They're garbage.”

  “Yes, they are, and I'm going to get them.”

  “Damn straight we'll get them, with or without the FBI. Call me after you talk to Blanche so I can put out a statement for the media,” Vobitch had said.

  Frank parked in front of Blanche's log cabin and sat there a full minute, acid churning in his gut. Working homicides involved many unpleasant chores, but telling families a child had been murdered was the one he dreaded most.

  He left the car, went to the door and rang the bell. Blanche opened the door, took one look at his face and said, “What's wrong, Frank?”

  “Sorry, Blanche, I've got bad news. Can I come in?”

  Without a word, she took him into her living room and said, “Tell me.”

  From long experience, Frank knew it was best not to sugar-coat the news. “We found Robbie's body this morning. I didn't want to tell you over the phone.” Unable to think of anything to cushion the blow, he said, “I’m sorry. I know how much you cared about him.”

  She gazed at him in silence, an anguished expression on her face. She licked her lips, her throat working, as though she were trying to swallow but couldn't. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Frank hugged her, not something he normally did when making a death notification, but he felt like he'd gotten to know her, a little bit anyway.

  She wrapped her arms around him, holding on for dear life, her body shaking with silent sobs. After a while she released him and stepped back, brushing tears from her eyes.

  “What about Donna? And Emily?”

  “We don't know where they are, but we're going to find them.” Hoping they found them before the kidnappers killed them.

  “What if they kill Donna and Emily?” she said, her voice cracking.

  “We need to think positive. They want money and Hunter is willing to pay.” No sense telling her about the botched ransom drop. That would only upset her more.

  “What did they do to Robbie? I want to see him.”

  He didn't want to tell her, didn’t want her to know how Robbie died. “I'll speak to the coroner and see what he says. Is there someone who can stay with you? I need to get back to the station, but I don't want to leave you here by yourself.”

  She went to the table beside the sofa and took out a cigarette. Her hand trembled as lighted it and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I'm sorry, Frank. This is a terrible shock.”

  “No need to apologize. I know this is difficult. Call your best girlfriend and get her over here.”

  Blanche stared into space, seemingly lost in thought, remembering Robbie, perhaps. Frank spotted her cellphone on the coffee table. He went and got it, brought it to her and said, “Please, Blanche. As a favor to me, okay? Call someone.”

  She took the phone and looked at him, her eyes dull with pain. “Thank you, Frank. I appreciate your driving all the way out here to tell me. I'll call my girlfriend and ask her to come over. Go on back to the station.” Her eyes hardened. “And find the bastard who killed Robbie.”

  He nodded emphatically. “I'll find him if it's the last thing I ever do.”

  As soon as she got her girlfriend on the line, Frank left and got in his car, relieved to have completed the notification. It had gone no better or worse than he had expected. As Vobitch said, they never got any easier. But when it involved an innocent ten-year-old boy? Torture.

  Five minutes later he drove up the highway entry ramp and checked the time. 8:02. He got on the Interstate, took out his cellphone and hit a speed-dial number. After three rings, his boss answered with a curt, “Vobitch.”

  “I just left Blanche's house,” Frank said. “She's shaken up, but okay.”

  “Thank you for that information,” Vobitch said.

  Puzzled by the formality, Frank thought about it for a moment, then said, “You got someone in your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Walsh?”

  “That's part of it.”

  “Gates, too?”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay, I'll avoid your office when I get there. Call me when you can.”

  “Thanks,” Vobitch said.

  Frank ended the call, grateful he didn't have to endure what would undoubtedly be a screaming match. He got in the high-speed lane, accelerated and turned on the car radio, intending to dial in a news station, but his cellphone rang. He checked the caller ID, Doctor DeMayo, and answered.

  “Frank, I've got something for you, wanted to let you know right away.”

  His heart sped up. “What is it?”

  “When I removed the boy's clothes, I found a rosary and a cross in the pocket of his jeans. They were wrapped in two sheets of paper. I think you should see them. Can you come to my office?”

  “Thanks, Doctor. Be there as soon as I can. Twenty minutes tops.”

  His heart thrummed his chest. DeMayo had found something. The hunt was on. Find the bastard who killed Robbie and make him pay.

  _____

  8:15 AM

  After roll-call, Sam got in his car and began his patrol, oblivious to his surroundings, his thoughts flitting around like wasps at a lilac bush. Darin was a monster. How could he kill an innocent ten-year-old boy?

  The Circle-K on Esplanade was District-8 territory. Kenyon's territory. Maybe Kenyon would tell him what was happening with the investigation. If Darin's flunky told the cops about Darin, it was all over. Time to drink the Kool-Aid.

  He parked on Royal Street and hurried to the station, mopping sweat from his brow. Late October, but the heat was still oppressive, no breeze, the palm fronds motionless on palm trees in the Cafe Beignet courtyard next door.

  Several reporters stood beside the steps to the station. A young reporter flashed his Times-Picayune press badge and called, “Excuse me, officer. Do you have any information on the boy who was murdered?”

  “No, I don’t.” Sam ran up the steps and lunged into the foyer. Two more reporters were talking to the desk officer. He bypassed the desk, opened a door and walked down the hall, hoping Kenyon would be in the break room. He wasn't. Reluctantly, Sam climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  He stopped outside the door of the Homicide office, his heart slamming his ribs like a sledgehammer. Imagined Kenyon saying: Some asshole kidnapped a little boy, killed him and dumped him in the trash.

  Steeling himself, Sam opened the door. Seated at his desk facing the door, Kenyon looked up from his computer. No smile.

  “Hey, Sam, what's up?”

  “Heard about that little boy who got murdered, you know, wondered how the investigation's going.”

  “Nothing so far,” Kenyon said, grim-faced, “but it's early yet. We'll get the fucker.”

  A chill iced his spine. “Terrible thing, a little kid gets murdered like that. A bunch of reporters are outside the station. O
ne of them asked about it, but I said I didn't know anything. I best get back to my patrol. Forgot my cellphone in my locker.” His lame excuse for being here.

  But Kenyon didn't seem to notice, focused on his computer screen. “Take care, Sam.”

  “You, too, Kenyon.” He left the office, filled with a monumental dread. Kenyon and his partner, Frank Renzi, were on the case. Two of the best homicide detectives on the force.

  If they found out he was in on the kidnapping, he was done for.

  _____

  8:12 AM

  Eager to see what DeMayo had found, Frank hurried into the morgue, a two-story brick building he knew well, thanks to the many homicides in New Orleans. Faint odors permeated the interior, formaldehyde, antiseptics and the other funky smells that accompanied death. He went down a flight of cement stairs and walked along a cinder-block corridor, the odor of disinfectant intensifying with each step. DeMayo's office was at the end of the hall.

  Frank tapped on the door and heard DeMayo call, “Come in.”

  When he entered the office, DeMayo rose from his desk, dressed in green scrubs. Displayed on one wall above two file cabinets were DeMayo's medical degrees and the numerous citations and awards he had acquired during his years as coroner. Wooden shelves on another wall held bottles of various sizes with strange objects inside them, floating in formaldehyde.

  “You made good time, Frank. I haven't done the autopsy yet, about to do it now. I just got a call from Walsh. He wants the results ASAP, told me to send him a preliminary report as soon as I finished.” DeMayo looked at him, expressionless. “I didn't tell him what I found.”

  “Thanks for calling me first. I appreciate it.”

  DeMayo picked up one of two plastic bags on his desk. “I already bagged and tagged them, but I'll let you take a closer look. Nothing unusual about the rosary, but the silver cross attached to it has engraving on the back.” DeMayo pulled on latex gloves, took out the cross and turned it over to show him. “Rose 1975 on the crossbar, Asian characters on the vertical bar. My expertise doesn't include Asian characters, so I have no idea what they mean.”

  Frank bent closer and examined the cross. The vertical bar was two inches long, the crossbar an inch and a quarter. “One of my detective colleagues has Chinese ancestors. He might know. What else did you find?”

  DeMayo returned the rosary and cross to the plastic bag, opened another one and took out two sheets of paper. “They appear to be pages of a coloring book, a dump truck and a school bus. When I found them they were damp with urine. The boy's bladder let go when he passed, but the words are fairly clear. He wrote them in crayon. The wax helped to preserve them.”

  Frank studied the words over the dump truck. DONALD DUCK IS OKAY. MICKEY MOUSE IS A … The last word was illegible, scribbled over with brown crayon. Printed above the school bus were two words. KENNER and AIRPORT.

  His throat thickened. Robbie, only ten years old but smart as a whip, had tried to give them a clue.

  DeMayo appeared equally moved. He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “A brave little boy. In my thirty-odd years as a coroner, I've seen a lot of things, but never anything like this.”

  “Can I take them?” Frank asked. “Show them to my Asian colleague?”

  DeMayo frowned. “I can't let you do that, Frank. Not with the FBI bugging me about the case. You know the chain of evidence rules. I'd have to make you sign for them, and then Walsh would know I showed them to you.”

  “I understand, Doctor. I don't want to put you in a bad position. But Robbie left us a clue, and I want to find the bastard who killed him.”

  DeMayo didn’t respond, just looked at him. His expression appeared sympathetic but unyielding.

  “How about this?” Frank said. “Could you photograph them? Close-ups, so the words and the Asian characters are clear?”

  DeMayo smiled. “A fine idea, Frank. That I can do.” He put the sheets of paper back in the bag, set it on his desk and took his Nikon out of a leather satchel. “Shouldn't take long.”

  Frank waited while DeMayo set up the shots: one of the rosary and the front of cross; two shots of the back of the cross, a long-shot and a close-up. Then he photographed the coloring book pages. When he finished, he removed the SIM card from the digital camera, plugged it into his computer and downloaded the photos.

  Five minutes later DeMayo pulled several color photographs out of his laser color printer and showed them to Frank.

  “Great quality,” Frank said. “Thank you, Doctor DeMayo. I owe you big time.”

  Gazing at him, his eyes somber, DeMayo shook his head. “I don’t know what kind of human being kills a little boy like that. Find him, Frank, and see that he's punished.”

  The fury rose up and clawed its way into his throat.

  “I'll get him,” he said. “Come hell or high water, I'll get him.”

  CHAPTER 21

  10:15 AM

  Riding shotgun in David Cho's unmarked Chevy, Frank had his cellphone clamped to his ear. Vobitch had called him soon after Walsh and Gates left his office. He’d already told Vobitch about the cross, saying they were headed for a Catholic church in Metairie with a predominantly Vietnamese congregation. Now he said, “David thinks the date refers to the fall of Saigon in 1975, but don't tell anyone DeMayo showed it to me. Walsh called him already, bugging him about the autopsy.”

  “Don't worry,” Vobitch said. “That asshole won't hear it from me. He went ballistic this morning, said we botched the drop. I told him that was fucking bullshit. Well, I phrased it a little nicer. Wouldn't want the FBI charging me with using foul language.”

  Picturing the scene, Frank smiled. “What did Gates say?”

  “Nothing much. He seemed sort of subdued. Walsh made CC do the notification, can you believe it? The guy's got no balls.”

  “That reminds me, I'm supposed to meet her at eleven. I better call and tell her I'll be late.”

  “Let me know if you find out anything at the church,” Vobitch said.

  “If we do, you'll be the first to know,” Frank said and ended the call

  “You think they're holding them someplace in Kenner?” David said. “Near the airport?”

  “Right,” Frank said, busy scrolling through his Contacts to find Claudia Cohen's number. “Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, whoever the hell they are. Robbie probably heard the planes.”

  David took the southbound Clearview Parkway exit and stopped at a traffic light. Like Frank, he had on slacks and a sports jacket. He was thirty-one but looked younger, his black hair cut short, his face clean-shaven apart from the soul patch under his bottom lip, not as robust as Kenyon's, but respectable.

  “Too bad he didn't draw us a map,” David said.

  “He did the best he could,” Frank snapped.

  The light turned green and David accelerated. In the awkward silence Frank said, “Sorry, David. Seeing Robbie’s body stuffed in a trash bag this morning put me over the edge.”

  “It's okay, Frank. I understand. Finding a little ten-year-old kid murdered like that sucks big time.” David turned right onto West Napoleon and pointed at a one-story tan-brick building on the opposite side of the divided street. “We'll be there in a minute. I used to live near here before I joined NOPD, passed the church every morning on my way to work.”

  “Okay, but I need to make a call first.” He hit Call and heard CC's phone ring. Then, “Special Agent Cohen.”

  “Claudia,” he said. “Frank Renzi. I'm running late, might not be back to my office by eleven.”

  “That's okay. I'm running late too. I had to notify Hunter Gates about his son.”

  “That must have been tons of fun. How did he take it?”

  “I'll tell you about it when I see you,” she said, and ended the call.

  David parked in the blacktopped lot beside the church, shut off the motor and said, “You got a plan on how to handle the priest?”

  “Not really. We'll see how the play develops.�
��

  David grinned. “Always the point guard, right, Frank?”

  Frank laughed and gave him a thumbs-up. David had initiated their basketball connection last year by inviting Frank to a Hornets game.

  “Are you a Hornets fan?” Frank had said.

  “No. They're playing the Houston Rockets. I like Yao Ming.”

  “Hey, I'm a Celtics fan. Maybe I'll root for him, too.”

  They had a great time cheering for Yao Ming. But when Frank invited David to join the District-8 basketball team, David said, “I don’t know, Frank. You're the point guard. That's my position.”

  “So? You can spell me. Can you shoot? Play defense?”

  David laughed and said, “You'll see.” And Frank did. David was five-nine, only weighed one-sixty, but he worked out at a martial arts studio. At the first practice David had run him ragged.

  Frank picked up the briefcase on the floor by his feet and said, “Let's go talk to the priest, see if your Fall-of-Saigon theory is correct.”

  Five minutes later they were sitting in Father Alphonse Girard's office. A slender man in his mid-fifties with thinning brown hair and rosy-red cheeks, Girard said, “How can I help you?”

  Frank opened his briefcase, took out the photographs of the rosary and the silver cross, and gave them to the priest.

  “We're trying to locate the person who owns the cross. Detective Cho believes the person might be Vietnamese, because of the date on the cross.”

  The priest studied the photographs. “That’s a long time ago, long before I arrived at this parish. In 1975, I was still in seminary.”

  “As I understand it,” David said, “many Vietnamese people who escaped from Saigon in 1975 came to New Orleans to live.”

  Girard smiled. “Goodness, you don't look old enough to remember that, Detective Cho.”

  “My father told me about it. He owns a Chinese restaurant and he was worried. He was afraid the Vietnamese refugees would open a lot of restaurants and hurt his business.”